


spilled ink and clay pots

by honeyzhu (orphan_account)



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Historical, Fantasy AU kinda, M/M, Oneshot, i wrote this a year ago n i just wanted to get rid of it, magic tattoos basically, none of the ships are here tbh, so here it is, this sucks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:13:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21833488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/honeyzhu
Summary: remembering was hard, but this curious stranger seemed all-too familiar
Relationships: Javier Fernández/Yuzuru Hanyu, Nathan Chen/Shoma Uno
Comments: 8
Kudos: 4





	spilled ink and clay pots

**Author's Note:**

> hey this sucks please don't waste your time reading it

How do I describe what it feels like to be forgotten, to not be able to remember half of your soul? It feels like opening a book only to find words you can’t read. Here before me is an entire language, a story, a history. It is right here, still and unmoving, waiting to be deciphered. Right here. But each word blends itself inwards as chunks of intricate lettering haze into a fog. The print before me resembles the nimbus of blackness that closes in on a person before they drift off to sleep, like an untraceable nothingness that overpowers the mind. I can’t read this text, but I can feel it plucking at my thoughts regardless. I am a stranger in my own mind. I know that I don’t remember, I know that I have forgotten myself and that the answers lie open to my eyes, I know that I need to understand these texts or I cannot hope to understand myself. I know I know I know. But I can’t even see the beginning of understanding, can’t see a hint of a memory in the inks of the pages. I can see my name, though. It’s printed over and over. Here, nuzzled snugly into the crook of inky texts, and there, burrowing between strange chunks of blue and black, my name, my name, my name. Javi, Javier, Jabi. Why can’t I understand? Why can’t I remember what history binds my name to these unfamiliar words? Why can’t I remember what it’s like to feel at home in my own story?

My whole life, I’ve lived like this; I’ve felt like I’m on the verge of understanding how I fit into a fog of history that I don’t even know. All I know is that I can feel this indecipherable, unutterable, untraceable side of myself that is sprawled across my consciousness, crawling on the tip of my tongue. If I could only remember.

***

Like pale, half-hearted confetti, the paper twisted and danced on its way to the ground. Coils of ripped paper unfurled in a dismal descent, falling to rest around Lukas, who sat on his haunches on the floor. He sighed, his breathed hitching up a couple of pieces that sprung up for a second time, to fall at his feet, defeated. 

***

I can read every word that surrounds my name, I remember every verse printed in the book. Yet, my own mind is inked out onto the already yellowing tomes lying on my shelves. Feather-like whispers and murmuring heartbeats; All which I hear are the inconsistent palpations of the clock. Incomplete sentences dealt to me in decks of cards, asking me to play a game I can’t remember the rules of. 

***

Where they had come from was known by not a single soul. Not even themselves. Their existence was simply just there as a filler for the empty space left by those who had disappeared. Pitifully, their lives drowned on for centuries, yet they would never be given a chance to live. They were background characters, faceless nobodies in someone else’s story.  
They never concerned themselves with their mysterious past, they just accepted that they were alive- it was a gift, not a burden or a curse. But there was one baffling secret they could never wrap their head around, and it troubled them. It scared them. Many had devoted their lives to unraveling the secret that each of them had, permanently etched on their skin. But it would take more than just one to remember; it would take all of them.   
What they knew of their history was noted down on paper. Quick scribbles across pages, the occasional sentence, and notes long-forgotten and lost. But for all They knew, history was the random shapes and images etched on everyone’s bodies, images that told stories of the past, a time that was too often ignored. Yet the pictures, they changed, but the past didn’t, and that was the problem. Scraps of the past, present and future all appeared before each and every one of them. But how could anyone piece them together, if they didn’t know where to start?   
  
-Javier-  
  
I glance down at the tattoo etched onto my wrist – a vacant clock face stares back at me, almost perfectly mirroring the clock hanging from the immaculately white walls, down to the engravings that frame its stilled expression. The only difference is in the hands – the tattoo refuses to move whenever I glance at it. Of course, what would you expect? It’s a tattoo. Tattoos aren’t supposed to move, I know, but this tattoo has been with me for as long as I can remember, and I swear on my life, it moves. One day, I’ll look at it and it will be completely still, its hands frozen in place. But the next, it will show a different time, the hands still as the day before, but at different angles, as if they’re moving, but just never when I’m looking. I don’t know how I got it. Gradually, the imprint becoming stronger and darker, until one day I could perfectly see all the details on it—and then it started changing almost every single day. How, why, when, where, for what purpose, even why it’s a clock today, of all things. I’ve got a million questions – I've spent a great deal of my life pondering it, 13 years’ lucubration, toiling over loose ends – but I haven’t come close to finding any answers. Pieces of paper lay all around me, ripped up notes and ideas about what it could be – hopeless.   
Time for me to go to the annual bazaar; the bazaar my father runs. Living here is tough for a foreigner. Everyone gives you side glances, and once you start speaking their language, they just stare.  
  
-Yuzuru-

Stepping into my scalding bath, I grab the coarse sponge lying next to tap. It’s almost like a ritual for me, trying to scrub off the reappearing, ever-changing pictures etched deeply into the back of my hand. I know this is hopeless, but each time I look at it more and more questions surface into my mind. How did it get here? When? Why? Who else has it? I shrug, sinking deeper down, wiping my mind of all thoughts and worries. Closing my eyes, I let the heat of the bath flow over my body.   
Suddenly a voice rings out, shattering my defense of calm. “Yuzuru! Get ready for the bazaar!” I sigh, and get into my clothes, neatly prepared for me on the table. They are made of fine silk, brightly colored and intricately decorated with lions, dragons, and rabbits? Why are there rabbits? Oh well, I will have to ask my maid later. Grabbing my keys, I head to the bazaar.   
  
-Shoma-  
  
The sun breaks over the mountain ridge, leaving behind its traces of purple and red. I struggle under the burden of a sack of ceramic pots, my breath shallowing after every step I take. The journey to the bazaar has always been long and arduous, but I know that it’s important as it’s the only way we can pay for our food, our rent, and my mother’s ever-mounting medical bills. I sit down by the roadside and once again examine what has caused me many sleepless nights – my tattoo. It is a sponge, about the size of a small pebble, etched on the back of my leg. I gaze at it once more like I have done many times before, my eyes filled with wonder and amazement, marveling at the intricacy of my little companion. I know that my tattoo has more to it than its ink engravings. It’s a drawing, sure, but it’s a drawing that holds meaning. It’s a drawing that tells a story. It’s a drawing... or a puzzle... that I need to decipher. Am I the only one with this gift? Is it even a gift? A blessing? Or a curse? Looking up at the sun, I remember with a jolt that I must keep moving, or I will be too late to the bazaar, and my stall will be taken. Will there ever be a day where I will be the one on the other side of the stall, where I will be the one buying, not selling?”   
  
-Nathan-  
  
These tattoos have been with me ever since I could remember. Today, a ceramic pot, the black ink always fresh as if someone had just spilled it on my hand. This trip from China may be the trip that changes my life. I often sit as I am now, on the top of my roof, wind whistling by me, caressing my face. I tilt my head to study the picture on my hand. Raising it to the direction of the sun, Streaks of dawn light seep through my fingers, forming a golden frame around the dull black image. Through the vivid luminescence, the carvings on the clay pot almost seem to jump out and talk to me. I know it’s not only me, I know there are others.   
Leading our cow to the bazaar, I navigate through the crowds, trying to discern a potential buyer. The cost to come here, to my family at least, is astronomical, I must sell this cow sometime soon, or my family will starve. Suddenly, a movement catches my eye: a boy, not too much older than me trips and falls. As I rush to help him back up, my cow, frightened by the sudden movement, turns and just as he is getting back up, smashes him in the nose. Blood erupts from his nose, and I freeze. What do I do? Help him or keep moving forward and try to sell my cow?   
Leaning over to help him up, I see that blood is still flowing freely from his misshapen nose. I lead him away from the throngs of people talking, walking and dancing—a buzz of excitement and adrenaline. Propping him up against a tree, I tie my cow away from him and try to talk to him. Now that I am closer, I see that he is another foreigner here.   
“Can you speak Chinese?”   
“Yes, a little” The traveler gasps and wheezes a little.   
“Don’t worry, I will find someone who can help you. I’m Nathan, by the way.” Trying to sound reassuring, I fumble in my knapsack, trying to find something to bandage him up. Nothing.   
After persuading him to ride on the cow, I take him down a street full of magnificent houses, bigger than any that I have seen. Their grandeur casts a large shadow on us, although the sun setting means nothing to the boisterous bazaar. Knocking on each door down the alley, I dread to think when I can finally return home. Every door is empty. What did I expect? I sit down and wait, head hung low between my legs. 

— 

A symphony of noises blazes over the colorful tents and stages of the bazaar. Browsing over the wares loudly hawked by sellers, Yuzuru looks at what is for sale with an expert eye- after all, he has been to this bazaar since he was 8, with his now-deceased father. In the corner of his eye, he sees a row of small, delicately made ceramic pots, each no bigger than the palm of his hand. I’ve never seen that before. Straining his head against the crowd, he peers at the stall and sees a small black boy, not much younger than himself, dressed shabbily in grey. His curiosity piqued, Yuzuru wades his way towards the stall.   
“How much for one of these?”   
“Ten coins.” 

Yuzuru reaches for his purse, but his pocket was empty. Stolen. Someone in the crowd must have taken it out when I wasn’t looking.   
“Why don’t you come to my house, I can pay you there. I’m sure my uncle would like one as well.” Yuzuru says regretfully.   
Javier shrugs, business hasn’t been flourishing today, this might be the only chance for him to make a sale today. He follows, slinging his hastily filled pack over his shoulder.   
Yuzuru skilfully leads him through a maze of alleyways, shortcuts, and bridges, until finally, they reach a street flanked on both sides by enormous mansions. Each door is beautifully carved with figures of lions, birds, all sorts of brilliant designs alive and moving. The mahogany door-sills engraved with small flowers seems to be bursting with fragrance, while the doorbells are perfectly shined, with not a trace of dirt, nor a single fingerprint on it. Javier sighs, when will he ever come near such grandeur ever again? 

Yuzuru suddenly halts—two people are huddled near his house. Beggars? Thieves? 

— 

The traveler’s situation had taken a turn for the worse over a mere few minutes. His face was now a scarlet mess, completely unrecognizable. Nathan hurriedly looked around, desperately calling for someone, anyone to come help them quickly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw two people run forward. Breathing a sigh of relief, he quickly tried to explain what had happened in a flurry of gestures and broken phrases. In strained English, the traveler asks Yuzuru whether he can speak English, and the latter confirms that yes, he can speak English.   
After listening to his predicament, Yuzuru shrugs, leading them into his house. Wide-eyed and mouths agape, Nathan and Javier stared wildly at everything around them. The porcelain, vases, chairs, gold, even a belt with gems embedded all around it. Their eyes wander around the room in awe, completely struck by the sheer splendor of the house.   
“Come on guys, my room is upstairs. I can get you some bandages in my bathroom.” Yuzuru’s voice breaks them from their awing reverie. As they head upstairs, something catches the eyes of Yuzuru- a small patch of ink on the back of his right leg 

Remembering.

Javier frantically waves his arms at Nathan, signaling him trying to attract his attention. He remembers something. The tattoo on Nathan’s arm gives Javier a warm, fuzzy feeling. Not a feeling of pain, or joy, but simply peace. There is something about it. Something that connects with him. Something... strange, but... familiar...?   
Amidst the many feelings and emotions in front of Javier, he squints only to recognize in shock a familiar object. He suddenly remembers. It’s the clay pot that he was selling just this morning, now engraved on the person ahead of him. Javier gasps, out of pure shock and excitement. Hastily, he rubs his eyes once more, unable to believe the puzzle that he pieced together. He has figured it out. He had unraveled a mystery that was never touched before, clearing away the nebulous mist that enshrouded the truth. He remembered.   



End file.
